


Leap of Faith

by WildandWhirling



Category: Marie Antoinette - Levay/Kunze
Genre: (kind of), Alternate Universe - Assassin's Creed Fusion, Assassin's Creed Typical Levels of Violence, F/M, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, Loving Descriptions of 18th Century Medicine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:00:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26040790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildandWhirling/pseuds/WildandWhirling
Summary: Margrid is hurt during a skirmish with Extremists and has to go to her lover, the Mentor of the Parisian Brotherhood of Assassins, for help. Thinking that it's embarrassing but ultimately meaningless, she's surprised to find out that there's much more to their relationship than either one of them is willing to admit, and that the latest skirmish revealed more of her vulnerabilities than she gave it credit for.
Relationships: Margrid Arnaud/Philippe Égalité
Kudos: 2





	Leap of Faith

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, but really, fuck guns in this game. Like, come on, one hit and you're nearly KO'd? Really? With pinpoint accuracy each time? Come on. You see that little red target on you and the next thing you know, BAM. Desynchronized, adios Arno. 
> 
> And obviously, I had to channel my rage at the game into fanfiction after several times of getting shot to death, because I decided that Margrid would take the same approach that I do to assassinations and would be very Done. And, since it was my birthday when I started writing this, I decided that my birthday present to myself would be some self-indulgent content.

There was a process to realizing how fucked she was. 

It started off with an air assassination. Easy enough, the wooden ledge outside the window of the house was sturdy enough, at least for that part of town, and she had a clear line of vision. It was a gray day, the kind that settled over the city like a shroud, the streets below dotted with muddy puddles, but she had clear visibility. A steady wind blew across the roofs, sprinkles of rain streaking her face, but, after five years in the Brotherhood, it took more than a little rain to throw her off balance. It was easy to see the two of them, narrow her focus, and then leap, her hidden blade coming into contact with their throats before they even had the time to know what hit them. Done and done. A twig clipped her movement at the last second, and she found herself skidding on the pavement, but still, a more or less perfect attack. The would-be victims ran away as the puddles ran red, the thugs lying dead in the streets. 

Now, if she could just rifle through the bodies to see if they’d picked up anything useful….

“You’re going to pay for that!” 

Oh, _shit_. 

She hadn’t noticed that they’d had friends. Why did they always have to have fucking friends? Why couldn’t they just die easily, like normal people? But nope, no sooner had the two of them dropped than she was very aware of two new thugs taking their place, their red shirts announcing to the world that they meant business. (Not ones for subtlety at all, them.) 

She was barely able to dodge the round axe when it came down on her, blocking it at the last second. The man wielding it was big, heavy, the sort who’d probably worked on the docks before finding a better job terrorizing the streets. 

“Thought you could escape?” 

“I didn’t know you were even there, you little bitch,” His eyes widened in fury and he went to swing his axe down, but before he could, she kicked him in the stomach, bowling him over so that he was at the same height as her before running her sword through his throat, blood splattering a nearby cart. 

Well, at least they liked to wear red, that made it easier. 

And, hey, the rest of the civilians had been scared away by the last round, which meant that all she had to do was find the other-

A gunshot. 

She turned, and there was the other man, gun pointed directly at her, and gunsoke wafting away from it. 

In that moment, Margrid Arnaud was aware of many things. 

She was aware that he was about ten feet out from her. 

She was aware that she couldn’t dodge it, not fully, not from that range. 

She was aware that she was running low on health potions because she’d, stupidly, been in such a hurry the last time she’d been in the basic area of a shop that she hadn’t even noticed or cared. 

She was aware that the bullet was approaching, could see it. 

She was aware that it was a Sunday, and that there wouldn’t be a doctor in the city who would want to treat her, much less one who would ask questions. 

_Oh, Philippe is going to be pissed about this._

She jumped away, the bullet clipping her side. Her face met the pavement, her hood falling back. 

“This is what happens to those who defy the natural order.” The man smiled, a cold, casual smile, his finger moving to the trigger again. She clutched at her side, forcing herself up. She had to keep moving. She had to, even if-

She caught herself as her body tried to slip down again. She was an _Assassin_. She wouldn’t just- 

“Any last words?”

She staggered over, looking him dead in the eye. “You should have asked for raise.” 

And, like that, she threw herself at him, grappling with him for the gun. She had the element of surprise, the man not expecting any more fight from her, and he was left totally unprepared for the counter-strike. He pulled the trigger, but the bullet flew into the sky, and her fingernails bit down into his hand. With a scream, he released the prize and she tossed it away, her rapier digging its way into his chest before he slumped over. 

Thank fuck. It was done. 

She knew she had a reputation for what some of the fancier members of the Brotherhood called “savagery”. She didn’t care. It got the job done. No, she didn’t have the time for poisons or phantom blades or any of that shit. There was something just _better_ about using a sword, of driving it in herself instead of letting a gun do the work for her, of feeling it connect with the other person’s body and knowing that it was done. 

“Come on, come on, come on,” she murmured, rifling through his coat. A snuff box, a smoke bomb (who even gave these guys this shit?), a lock pick, but not what she needed. 

She slid over to the other man. “Why do you never carry them around when I need them the fucking most? Why is it always when I don’t have any more room, huh?” The man, being very dead, had no response to her question, only staring ahead with glassy eyes. 

Nothing.  
  
“ _Fuck_.” 

It was down to the two she’d gotten rid of in the beginning, the two who’d started this mess. She dug through the one’s clothing, clawing at anything that might be useful with one hand, her other continuing to grasp at her side, wet and sticky from blood. There had to be something, there had to, there had to-

Her fingers met a cool glass surface. She closed her eyes, leaning forward unsteadily. “Please.” 

She had no great belief in a God after her time in convent school, but if one was out there, now was the time for him to come through. (As far as she was concerned, he owed her, after all this time.) 

Her fingers wrapped around the stem, pulling out a full healing potion. It didn’t take a minute for her to pull out the cork and down the potion, the blue drink sliding down her throat in desperate gulps. Health potions were thick, foul, and bitter. It was a bit like downing a dozen lemons at once, with a bit of newly-dried paint for good measure. It took everything she had to not force it up onto the pavement and let it sit there with the blood, mud, and shit. But, in this moment, she didn’t care if they tasted like absolute dog shit. It was the only thing that would keep her alive long enough to get her to a secure place. 

Energy flowed back into her body, a steady pulse, and the pain from the wound ebbed away. Temporarily, she knew, it would still hurt like Hell in the morning, but for now, she had a chance. 

Speaking of which, now to get out. 

She couldn’t exactly climb up the walls, it would be too much of a strain in her position, and just because she wasn’t bleeding out any more, it didn’t mean that the wound was closed, anyway. All the health potion really did was convince her body that it wasn’t as badly hurt as it was. 

No, she couldn’t do too much, which meant…

Her eyes scanned the area, focusing on a lift. Brilliant. 

She grabbed onto it, the wind whipping her face as she was thrown to the roof of the building where, just a few minutes before, she’d been happily running on top of, whole and safe. 

She couldn’t make it back to the Headquarters at Saint-Chappelle, there was no way she could make the trip, and if she ran into more Extremists…

No, that was out. Her apartment - Out. A doctor- Out. 

The rain had plastered her hair to her face and she forced it back with more anger than it merited, teeth gritting. (It wasn’t like she could kill the fuck again, so she had to let it out where she could.) 

The city stretched ahead of her. Most of the time, when she saw Paris, she saw a world of possibilities, a place where she could dig her hands in and grab whatever she needed. A labyrinth of buildings and spires that were easy to navigate, filled with millions of people that were easy to blend in to. In Paris, she was never at risk of being anything more than one face in the crowd, and the sooner she’d realized that, the easier her job had been. Now, though, she just saw a cage, rapidly closing in on her, a desert filled with enemies that wouldn’t hesitate to strike her while she was down. The sky, which had been a light, slate gray color when she’d started had darkened. It wouldn’t be long before it was night. She was running out of options. 

In the distance, she saw the top of Palais Royal beckon. 

Fuck her life. 

* * *

  
  


Palais Royal was always easy to infiltrate, especially when there was a ball and it was easy enough to fit in with the crowd. (The _times_ that he hadn’t even realized she was there until they were halfway through a dance and she’d moved her mask ever so slightly to the side so her could see a trace of her face.) Sometimes, she swore the man liked to live dangerously. It was the only option. 

This time, though, she took the direct route, not having the luxury of playing around. Philippe’s servants always fucking left at least one window open, so it was just a matter of dropping down, going through the window, and taking cover behind various billiard tables, chairs, and the odd statue. 

No problem- 

Her hip collided with the edge of an end-table and she had to bite her arm to hold back the sharp whimper that escaped her throat.

“Did you hear something?” She heard a guard ask. 

_No, just me nearly murdering myself because your boss likes to treat his home like it’s the FUCKING LOUVRE._

She ducked beneath some heavy crimson curtains as the footsteps sounded closer and closer. Her heart thudded in her ear, and she had to wonder how they didn’t hear it. 

_Thump thump, thump thump, thump, thump…_

She was on friendly territory, she knew, but God help her if the guards were the type to throw her out first, ask questions later. She needed to see Philippe directly, not any of his guards or lackeys. No middlemen. 

The guard stepped into the room, and she had to strain her ears to make out the sound of his boots against the carpet (fucking _Philippe_ ). His hand shifted to a sabre as he eyed the room, and she wondered if it was over already, if a single breath was enough to give her away. She didn’t like killing Philippe’s guards on a good day, but especially not when she wasn’t sure that she had another fight left in her. Her free hand settled on top of her ribcage and she closed her eyes, breathing in and out, in and out. 

_Thump...thump….thump….thump…._

Her breathing relaxed, quieted, as the drum of her heart went from the beat of a soldier’s snare to something more like the slow tick of a clock. 

He shook his head. “Must have been my imagination.” 

He walked away, a door shutting behind him, and she took a long, ragged breath. 

She knew the way to Philippe’s quarters well from past experience, falling into the bed easily. He’d be along soon and, even if he wasn’t, the servant who came to check in would be, and, while a strange woman walking the halls of the Palais might have been only worth a scolding and tossing out, a strange woman in the Duc d’Orléans bed at least required some consultation with him. ( _Mainly because the latter makes more sense_ , she snorted. Philippe had been good since she’d come to his bed the first time, but she _knew_ him.) 

When she’d been running, her body had been constantly forcing itself to not focus on itself. The wound was there, but it wasn’t much, at least not like it should have been, except for the run-in with the table where it’d been unavoidable. She’d been propelled by nothing more than the sheer desire to survive and whatever the health potion could do for her, and that had carried her through the entire trip, but here, now, she felt the full weight of it, pulling the covers around her frantically to keep out the blistering cold that seemed to steal it’s way through her body, teeth chattering. 

(Orléans was going to have to get new blankets, she thought, distantly, wrapping herself in the blanket as much as she could, even though it seemed like a hundred blankets wouldn’t do anything to help.) 

The door opened, letting in the distant sounds of laughter and conversation. 

“-an early night.” Never, in her entire life, had she been so happy to hear the voice of Louis-Philippe Joseph d’Orléans, the words like nectar or ambrosia or whatever the hell it was that the old Greek fucks liked so much. It didn’t matter, he was _there_. 

Then, he stopped in his tracks. He stepped slowly, deliberately, and it was strange, the difference between the Mentor and the man. 

The man she’d been sleeping with for years was careless, fun-loving, overconfident, smug, with a certain pragmatism that cut through every once in a while. Oh, he could be direct with what he wanted, especially when she wasn’t, but in their private life, he was very much a counter to her and she knew it. If she was all ice mixed with a temper that she knew very fucking well could be explosive, he was warmth with an icy temper. 

It was how they _worked_.

The Mentor, though….he was different. Philippe, more or less confined to bureaucracy and shuffling information around his entire life, rarely showed his training, but sometimes, just sometimes, she could see him go ice cold and calculating. Sometimes, she remembered that he really was the highest ranking Assassin in France, even if he never showed it. 

As he crept closer, she could see him go for the hidden blade that he kept very well concealed, that had never been used in an actual assassination. 

“Hey, Orléans.” She said, voice weaker than she’d ever wanted him to hear. 

And, just like that, he dropped his training, scrambling to her side. “Margrid-” Then, he saw the blood that had totally soaked through the sheets (funny, she hadn’t thought there was very much, but-) “My God- _Margrid_. What-?”

He ran outside and, from the other end of the door, she could hear. “You! Send for my personal physician. There’s a young woman who needs medical attention.”  
  
“Monsieur, it’s night time.”  
  
“ **_Now_ **!” 

Then, he was back in with her, his hands on her forehead. “What happened? Are you-” 

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, it was that time of the month.” 

He glared at her. 

“Not funny?” She curled up against the blankets, seeking whatever heat she could find as her teeth continued to chatter uncontrollably. It reminded her of the winters in Strasbourg, the bitter days when she had nothing but rags to cover herself in while she had to trudge through the snow every day. Funny thought to have on a summer day. 

He piled on several more blankets. “Here. These will help.” 

They took the edge off the cold as he knelt by her side, squeezing her hand tightly, and if she hadn’t known better, she would have thought that he was the one on death’s door from the way that he looked at her, face gaunt and pale. In that moment, he looked every one of his 41 years of age. 

She squeezed his hand in return. “Hey, it’s not like I’m dying.” 

He was silent still, only continuing to grip her hand like his life depended on it. 

“Monsieur Seffert,” a servant said, and Orléans bolted up. 

“Seffert, if it is within your ability…” 

Doctor Seffert was a spindly man, held up on two legs that resembled stilts. The top of his head was balding, and what little hair that he had left was thin and fuzzy, held back with a ribbon that seemed a little too much given what it was dealing with. He peered down at her, and then, upon seeing her wound, his face dropped. “How the Devil did she come by this?” 

“She hasn’t said.” 

He shook his head. “She needs immediate attention.” 

He opened a briefcase filled with instruments, potions, anything else that could suit a doctor. “Now, then…” He pulled out a pair of forceps. “There’s one thing to do. Mademoiselle,” he looked to her, “We are going to have to remove the bullet from your wound, do you understand?”  
  
She nodded her head, already gritting her teeth. This was going to hurt like Hell. “Better than leaving it in there, Doctor.”  
  
He gave a small smile. “Now then, I will put this piece of wood in your mouth, to give you something to bite down on.” 

“Believe me, it is better to leave her teeth attended at all times, if possible.”  
  
“You think I’d bite, Orléans?” 

Despite the tense situation, he was able to force a smirk onto his face that told her everything she needed to know about where his mind was going in that scenario. (Please. Like he didn’t _ask_ for it.)  
  
“Doctor…” Margrid said. “Do what you have to do. I’ll go along with it.” 

He put the piece to her mouth and, swallowing, she clamped her teeth around it, tongue coming into direct contact with the sharp taste of wood, trying her damndest to avoid a splinter because, really, the last thing she wanted was to have to deal with a splinter on her tongue. 

He poked along the wound and she clenched onto the wood already, the pain reigniting. He might as well have dumped salt on it while he was at it. “Yes, yes, I think I can feel it here. Yes. Good.” 

He turned to Orléans. “The good news, Monsieur, is that the bullet did not go too deeply. It should be a straightforward process to recovering it. However, I would suggest…” he trailed off, shaking his head, “This will be a very unseemly procedure. You might wish to wait in the next room while…” 

Margrid, unconsciously, clutched at his hand. He was able to spare her a single, fond look that told her, without saying anything, that he wouldn’t leave her. 

“Regardless, I’m going to remain here,” he said, voice smooth and confident despite her _feeling_ him shake beneath her hand. 

Seffert nodded his head. “Very well.” 

He took the forceps and, as he put them to the wound, Margrid nearly lurched out of the bed, clawing at Philippe’s hand as the pain, white-hot, surged through her side like a brand being shoved through her body, and it was a good thing the wood piece was there or she knew that she’d have screamed loud enough to wake the entirety of Paris. Tears pricked her eyes and she couldn’t even be ashamed because it hurt so _much_. 

For his part, he stayed where he was, allowing her to claw him as much as she needed. “Steady, Margrid, steady,” he said, and it was funny, because this was exactly what her early time in the Brotherhood had been like: Her going off on her own and Philippe there to calm her. “That’s it, that’s it.” He lowered her back onto the bed. “That’s my girl.” 

He’d never used that particular endearment on her. He had a wide variety that he deployed when he thought she was least likely to scratch his eyes out for them, operating along the thin line of irritation and homicide, but this was the first time he’d used “my girl”. Probably because he knew this was the only time that she _wouldn’t_ kill him for it. They were always used with a certain amount of levity, never seriously, because they weren’t really in a _relationship_. Not the kind that allowed for those kinds of pet names, anyway. The more saccharine, the more he relished it and the closer she came to homicide, and that was the little game they played: Him testing the waters, her resisting the bait. 

“And…” Seffert latched the forcep around something, and with one solid tug, it was out. “We have it.” He placed the bullet on a table. He took a small bottle of wine from the chest. “It has been discussed that, on occasion, the application of wine to a wound might stave off the potential for infection. It is by no means certain, however…” 

Margrid nodded her head, and Orléans followed. “Whatever you feel is best.” 

“Very good.” 

The wine splashed against the wound and, against the wood piece, Margrid hissed, the wine stinging and singeing the entire area. Orléans squeezed her hand. 

“And, for the dressing of it.” He moved to remove her bodice, and, involuntarily, she tensed up.  
  
Orléans intervened immediately, taking the roll of linen from his hands. “Allow me.” 

Seffert looked at him quizzically, eyes narrowed. “Monsieur?”  
  
“I can tend to Mademoiselle Arnaud’s wounds from this point. Thank you for your time. My man will talk to you about payment.” 

“My pleasure, as always, Monsieur. The patient is advised to rest and, if it is at all possible, keep pressure off of the wound. Replace the dressing regularly.” 

“I have no doubt,” Orléans said, shaking his hand. “That she will keep that in mind.” 

Seffert left, leaving the two of them there. 

“Margrid, you know that I have to-” He gestured to the wound. 

“Hey, it’s nothing new to you.” Really, he’d taken them off a hundred times and now was the time that he had to get self-conscious about it? “So, did they give you medical lessons when they signed you on for the job?” 

“A few, for the sake of my safety.” He paused. “I see your sense of humor remains impeccable.” 

“Yours isn’t,” she responded. 

His fingers plucked at the strings of the bodice, undoing each one with deft skill. (He would have been good, she thought, at lock-picking. She had no taste for it, her patience wearing off after the first or second broken lock pick, but Orléans? Would have had a natural skill for it. Along with the things that she knew he actually used that skill for. Things that had names like “Duthé”, “Elliot”, and “Genlis”.) The bodice fell off to the side, followed shortly after by her petticoats and pockets until she was down to her shift, which he then took off as well. She breathed, long, shuddering breaths that came from having nothing to confine her stomach or lungs, nothing to stifle her. Stays were well and good for day to day life, but there was nothing quite like being out of them, even under the present circumstances. 

Funny, as many times as he’d done this, it still felt odd. She was totally naked in front of her lover and there wasn’t a hint of desire or lust to it. It was as routine as if he was helping her clean out a rifle. It wasn’t that she was expecting him to try to fuck her when he was bandaging her gunshot wound, more that she was just surprised that he was tending to her at all, when this wasn’t any part of the usual duty of a Mentor of the Brotherhood, wasn’t part of anything they’d agreed on when she signed on. 

He slowly wound the linen around her, only stopping where she’d laid down. She raised herself up enough for him to draw it underneath her, winding it again. The bandage brushed against the wound, but, when he gave her a quizzical look, asking, without saying anything, _Is this permitted?_ , she nodded through the instinctual wince, gripping the sheets in the absence of his hand. Finally, he spoke, shaking his head:

“You take too many risks.” (He said, as she'd actively been able to sneak into his house and would have been able to kill him VERY easily had she been a Templar.) 

“Are you saying that as the Mentor of the Parisian Guild of Assassins, or are you saying that as my lover?” It was, she thought, the first time she’d ever used the term, and she said it like an accusation. _Lover_ was soft as a term. Gentle. Saccharine. It was for couples who could hold hands on park benches and write one another love letters that were in anything but invisible ink. Couples who didn’t live in the in-between spaces. It wasn’t for...whatever they were. “Partner” was more practical. Not as terrifying. 

He was silent, only continuing to tend to her wounds with what could only be described as abrupt gentleness. Still taking pains not to hurt her, at least any more than he had to when he was coming into direct contact with some very fresh, very painful wounds, but also not having that usual grace that he had when doing everything else. 

“When we started this, you agreed: You weren’t going to treat me any different from another Assassin just because of whatever the Hell this is. This is extra.” It was naive, she knew, to think it would stay like that forever. The thought that they could fuck like rabbits in-between missions and then go back to a strictly professional relationship was, probably, doomed from the start. 

He shook his head. “And as the Mentor of the Parisian Brotherhood of Assassins, I’m telling you this: We absolutely cannot lose one of our finest Assassins because you…” 

Margrid smirked. “So, I’m one of your _finest_ , huh?” 

“Do you think if the Templars had any idea what we were-”  
  
“Hey, I can take care of myself.” She took his face in her hand, grappling with his lightly pitted cheek, more like a gigantic bird trying to grasp at a piece of fruit with its long talons than a lover’s caress. All this time, and she still didn’t know how to be _gentle_ with him. She only really knew how to clutch for whatever she wanted. She didn’t know how to caress him or comfort him or calm him. He wasn’t _supposed_ to worry over her. 

God knew no one else had. 

He pressed a kiss to her palm. “Do you think, for one second, that they wouldn’t kill you? They want you dead anyway simply by virtue of being an Assassin; if it was discovered that you were the Duc d’Orléans’ lover, you would become their highest priority. And not just them either. Do you think that any of my rivals in the Order itself would hesitate, for one second, if they saw the slightest crack in my armor? Do you think that they wouldn’t throw your body exactly where I would find it? When I saw you here, covered in blood, I thought that-” 

The smirk died on her face as she realized what he’d walked into, what he’d _seen_. “Philippe…” She didn’t always know how to handle him. What to do. Hell, she barely knew how to handle herself at times. 

He cut the bandage, tying it off securely. “There. That should be enough. We will have to replace it with clean dressing in the morning, possibly earlier.”  
  
“It won’t happen again. I assure you that I’ll be as careful as possible.” It was funny, at times: All these years, and still, the convent sometimes snuck back into her speech, especially when she was caught.  
  
“Yes, you will be,” he said, sighing a low, deep sigh. “I’m taking you away from any active missions, at least until you learn to handle yourself.”  
  
“What? You can’t-”  
  
“I’m assigning you to train our up and coming recruits. Specifically, Mazurier.” 

“Mazurier?!” She nearly bolted off of the bed, at least before her body decided to remind her that it was still very, very wounded, calling her a bitch for good measure, a spasm of pain shooting up her side. “...Fuck.” 

He shot her a concerned look, which she batted away with a scowl. “You’re going to stick me with that guy? He’s an arrogant hot-head who only knows one word: ‘Go.’ He’s good for a tavern brawl, but not much else.” 

“Then I’m sure you’ll get along wonderfully, so long as you don’t get the other killed.” 

“Hey, I know how to stop. Sometimes.” 

“You have improved, since you came here,” he said. “I’ve been impressed, up until now.” He smiled, and she knew he was going to dig the knife in then. He always liked to dig the knives in with a smile. “Which is exactly why you should be the one to train him. You might be able to make him see reason that the rest of us can’t.” 

She buried her head in the pillow. “I hate you.” 

Then, she decided to change tactics. Philippe wouldn’t be convinced with complaining, not when he’d made his mind up, but maybe…

“Hey, Orléans,” she trailed off, stretching her shoulders slowly, letting her hair fall just enough to show bare skin. He watched her, eyes glinting, flicking between her face and her shoulder. “After that run, my shoulders are sore. Any chance you could help me out?” 

He stilled, watching her carefully, with a hesitation that didn’t suit him. Then, he almost scrambled to go to her side, his fingers, nimble and capable from years of maneuvering, rubbing reassuring circles around her muscles which were, without any exaggeration, sore as Hell after that run. All the pain, all the tension seeped out onto the floor, and it was just Orléans and the little pricks of heat that he was sending along her shoulders and neck. 

“Oh, fuck...Philippe,” she murmured, neck falling back, not even caring that she used his name, his _real_ name, to his face. He brushed a kiss to her clavicle that earned him a genuine shudder. (Just because he enjoyed it, it didn’t mean that she couldn’t, too.) “Fuck, that’s good.”

“Hm.” He pressed a gentle kiss to the shell of her ear. “Very good, Margrid, I must say that I’m impressed. That was very clever on your part. But not good enough.”  
  
“Huh?” Her brain was going back and forth, trying to deal with it. On one hand, it was weirdly arousing it to hear him praise her (she didn’t have any problems, she didn’t have any problems, and she wasn’t going to think about it and what might have caused it, but the same part of her that reacted to “my girl” as a term of endearment was _purring_ at it anyway), especially in that specific low rumble that she associated best with the pillow talk that followed one of their nights together. Then there was what he was actually _saying_ in that voice.

“Did you really think that I would be that easily seduced?” He continued to kiss her shoulder casually, as if nothing else was going on. 

“Hoping. Why’d you go along with it, then?” 

He smirked, dropping a kiss to her neck. “If I have to end the night frustrated, so do you.” 

_Evil_ . Absolutely _evil_. She had to admit that she was impressed.

“God, the one time you have to not want it.” 

He made a sound of acknowledgment. “Not in your current condition. I’m not risking opening those bandages, as tempting a prospect as you are at the moment.” Another kiss. “And, on this matter, I’m firm. No more field missions, at least until I’m satisfied that you won’t endanger yourself more than necessary. _As_ the Mentor of the Parisian Brotherhood of Assassins.” He tilted her chin upwards, softening. “And as your lover.” When he said the word, it was so differently from how she said it. While she said it as if it was poison on her tongue, he said it as if it was a caress, the term easily rolling off. 

Something in her stomach squeezed at that. She knew it was probably talk, that he could find someone new, if he wanted to. (Hell, just about any of the new recruits would fuck him by reputation alone, and that wasn’t counting his money, standing, and bloodline. The things that didn’t really matter to Margrid but did to the rest of the world.) But, seeing the way he looked at her, softer than he ever was at the Council, even as he was turning her down...she could believe that he cared. Even if it was a stupid, naive thought. 

He continued to run his thumb along her chin. “I should leave for another room tonight.”  
  
“It’s your bed,” she said. 

“And I am too much of a gentleman,” she snorted, and he gave an exasperated glare that lacked any real bite in response, “To throw you into another one. There are a hundred rooms here. I can surely find one.” 

She shuffled. “I might need you around. In case I bleed through the wrapping. You never know.” It wasn’t that she needed Philippe. It wasn’t even that she really wanted him. 

She was just. Used to him. Having him there by her side, solid, warm, comforting. It didn’t seem right to stay in Palais Royal and not have him there. 

“I am absolutely not risking your health by-” 

She snorted. “What’s the matter, Orléans? Worried that we’re both so irresistible we can’t help ourselves?” She sighed, “I’ve never stayed here without you before. And I don’t want you gone, I feel...I guess I feel alright when you’re around me. I’m used to you. And you’re warm.” 

Stupid. Stupid. He wasn’t going to choose her, not when he couldn’t get anything out of it. What the Hell was she thinking? 

He looked between her and the bed. Then to her. Then the bed, and she could see the conflict. She rolled her eyes up to the brocaded canopy that hung over the bed. “I promise I won’t jump you.”

Of all the ways she thought her life would go, somehow “Promising a womanizing aristocrat that she wouldn’t compromise his honor” was the least likely option. Killing people? Not really unexpected, though the way it happened was a little strange. Trying to take down the government? The nuns would have said that it was a tragic inevitability. Nearly getting herself killed? That was just every Sunday night, nothing new there. But having to promise that she wouldn’t try to seduce the Duc d’Orléans was the one place that she never saw her life going. 

“I’ll ready myself for bed. And, while I'm at it, have the bedding changed.” He tilted her head just enough to kiss her on the mouth gently, and she found herself chasing it afterwards, leaning in for another kiss before he pulled away. When the Hell had _that_ happened? 

Must have been her wounds. They were doing weird things to her. Loss of blood. Her head wasn’t in the right place. 

He turned to look at her. “I know it would be pointless to tell you to not move while I’m gone, however…” 

“Look, I won’t jump out the window while your back is turned.” She wasn’t sure she could make it to the window, anyway. Even if she could, “jumping” would be a really nice term to describe what she could do.

She waited as he had his valet change him into his nightshirt behind a screen (which she knew was for her benefit, not his. He had no issues with being changed by someone else; it was as natural to him as anything else, but she could never quite get used to having a servant in the room. He could do what he wanted, but her tits were _not_ a public park.) 

It was easy to relax on the bed, finding her body surrendering to the tiredness that settled over it like a shroud now that she was out of the line of fire. It wouldn’t be any harm to close her eyes. Just for a few seconds. Until Philippe got back. 

Footsteps along the floor, lighter, without boots or heeled shoes to amplify them. Anyone else might not have heard them at all, but her time in the Guild had taught her to hear a rat scuttle along the floor. There was never really a time where she wasn’t an Assassin, and that was how she’d done so damn well at it. 

Her eyes forced themselves open, taking in the room for any sign of movement.

Philippe brushed a kiss on her forehead, a hand running along her jaw. “No need to trouble yourself.”  
  
“Oh,” she closed her eyes again, sinking into his touch. “It’s you.” There was something that felt right about him there, by her side. Like, despite everything else, there was some sort of order to the world, even if that world rested just on Louis Philippe Joseph d’Orléans breathing next to her.  
  
“As promised.” 

He settled on the opposite end of the bed, far enough away that they weren’t really touching, his eyes constantly going from her to the space between them. It was strange, not having him all over her for once. The first thing that she’d learned about the Duc d’Orléans, even before she’d started sleeping with the man, was that he was very tactile. Couldn’t go ten seconds without touching her arm, her wrist, her shoulder. If it was anyone else, they wouldn’t have hands left, but he did it with everyone. Even walking around the headquarters at Saint-Chappelle, she could sometimes see him slapping someone’s arm as they walked by. It was just _him_. 

For him not to touch her at all was _wrong_. It wasn’t that she really liked it all that much herself; it was his thing, not hers. But it was just. Wrong. But, maybe...

She reached over to stroke his wrist, and she could feel him relaxing under her hand. That would work.

It was still some time before she spoke, eyes trained on the canopy above the bed. “They were going after a mother and child. A girl. About….maybe eight or ten, I can never really tell. The Extremists. That was why I went off. They wouldn’t leave them alone, and the girl was crying, and I just…” 

He was quiet, stroking her hand. “You did the right thing,” he replied, “But you nearly killed yourself in doing it. I need you alive, Margrid. I need you-” He kissed the palm of her hand, his goatee brushing against her skin.  
  
“I know. I know. And...” she swallowed. “I’m sorry. For making you worry. I hadn’t thought-your position.” She hadn’t thought it would _matter_. 

He shook his head. “Mazurier should be easy to train. You won’t have trouble with him.” 

  
She shot him a deadpan look. “Trouble” and “Ronan Mazurier” went with one another like bread and butter. 

“Well,” he knit his brows as she buried her face in the pillow. “You’ll sort him out, I’m sure. And then all will be as it should be. That being said,” he chuckled, “I will miss your mission debriefings, though.”  
  


Alright, so maybe they’d failed at professionalism a long time before. The first time that she’d slipped into his rooms after a successful mission, blood-soaked clothes hitting the floor, followed by a recounting of every single important detail of it, it might have been written off as a happy accident. Not something that was going to be repeated, just...excess energy. The second time, a coincidence. The third time, a habit. The fourth time, a custom. 

  
“Mm, might have to start...giving you progress reports...on Mazurier.” The words came out far groggier than she intended.  
  
“Mon cher, the last thing I want to think about when I’m in bed with you is Mazurier.” 

She couldn’t help but bark out a laugh in response, which was followed shortly afterwards by a whimper as her wounds disagreed with the choice. 

“Margrid…” And then the levity was gone, replaced by pure concern again.  
  
“It’ll be fine.” Sleep was pulling her down, but she couldn’t actually _settle_. It was like she was so tired that she couldn’t sleep, only exist in the limbo between the two worlds. And every time she got close, the wound would sting her, as if to remind her that it was still there. 

He stroked her cheek, breaking the silent rule that said that he wouldn’t touch her. 

She squirmed, not knowing how to deal with...whatever this was. Closeness? Connection? Concern? “Go to sleep, Orléans. God knows you need it, after dealing with me.” 

Something that Margrid thought was one of her better qualities: She never _hid_ that she was a bitch that was difficult to get along with. Other women might have simpered, downplayed their faults, acted softer, gentler than they were in order to hide their edges, but she didn’t. She knew what she was, what she’d been made into, and she didn’t hide it, and when she admitted to it, it was as much a warning for anyone else around her as it was a reminder to herself. 

Why Philippe was still there was anyone’s guess. The best she’d figured was that he liked a challenge. Or pain. Maybe both.  
  


“What I _need_ is to see you resting,” he said. “The rest will follow. I’m a late sleeper, anyway.” 

Maybe, just maybe, it was- 

And it was stupid to think it. They were _Assassins_. Their kind didn’t usually die in their beds. This wasn’t some stupid little love story. She didn’t want some stupid little love story. She was fine on her own. 

But...still...

"Perhaps you haven't noticed," he said, his voice soft, "But I enjoy dealing with you. And would like to continue doing so." Then, he realized exactly what he'd said, the mask came back up, and she could see him settle back into his old habits. Not hard, nowhere near that (she dreaded ever seeing Philippe go totally cold), but carefully hiding any hint of vulnerability now that he'd shown his hand. It was one of the things they had in common: Stubborn pride. And now that he'd shown himself to be vulnerable, he was going to do everything he could to hide it. 

“Orléans... _Philippe_ , I-” she shook her head. She knew what was on the tip of her tongue, but she refused to say it. She’d let down her guard enough as it was. “Thank you. For this.” She didn’t know what else to say, and there was still too much ground to pass over, and she didn’t know how to take the first step. It wasn’t like becoming an Assassin, it wasn’t like running across the tops of buildings and it being one foot in front of the other, it was more like dodging bear traps. 

Then, she pressed her forehead against his. _What the Hell? She’d nearly died anyway._ “I don’t know how to ask this.” 

And to anyone else, it might have been cryptic, they might have asked what it was she wanted to ask, or else simply looked at her like she was barking mad, but Philippe knew her, knew how her brain twisted and turned. Of course he knew what she was asking. 

“Haven’t I already answered?” Philippe replied, and any other time, it would be with that nonchalance that he’d long since mastered, that careless, free-spirited dismissal, but, this time, as he looked at her with pale blue eyes, she knew very well that there was nothing careless about what he was saying. He _had_ answered, had a hundred times in just the last hour, much less before. She just hadn't wanted to hear it. It was a confession, in the only way that they could confess to one another. 

She kissed him on the mouth softly, sleepily, taking his upper lip while he melted against her. She didn’t really know what she was doing. It wasn’t sex, they’d thrown that out already. It wasn’t even passion. She wasn’t sure that she had the energy for passion, anyway. But... Something. Something warm. Something she didn’t want to name, so wouldn’t, but that was theirs anyway. 

“Rest, Margrid. I’ll be here with you when you wake.” He kissed her forehead again, slower, more lingering than the last time, and she didn’t know why it relaxed her, but between that and the steady stroke of his fingers along her neck and cheek, she finally found herself falling into a thick, dreamless sleep. “Rest.” 

**Author's Note:**

> According to Grace Dalrymple Elliot, Seffert was the name of Philippe's personal physician.


End file.
